


The Story of Mann

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Bets & Wagers, Corpse Disposal, Creation Myth, First Time, Folk Tales, Gods, Hunters & Hunting, Legends, Love, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Marriage, Monsters, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Priestesses, War, Werewolf!Demoman, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pauling is a neophyte in the priesthood of the temple of Teufort, the throne of the gods.  Helen, the High Administrator, has taken it upon herself to speak with the initiate on the stories of their creation and the beings who rule them, and to impart certain lessons as she does, as well as test her knowledge.  More, she is grooming her for the important tasks her new position will demand.  So, she tells her the tales of the Gods of Mann, and their children, the Teufort Nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Mann

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirfacepalm23](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sirfacepalm23).



The temple was empty, the morning fresh, new, and chilly. Ambient humidity clung to the stone walls from the previous night's odd desert rainstorm. The thunder had rolled like war drums, and the dry dust and gravel had soaked up the rain while singing praises to the sky. The moon had been overtaken, but given time, the clouds had broken, and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. All the same, the bite of the night's cold lingered in the old temple.

Helen walked through the sanctuary, her pace brisk, her tone clipped. Old age did not soften the old holy woman's demeanor. "You've heard the stories before?" she asked, drawing her robes about her.

"Yes, my whole life," replied the small priestess trailing behind her. Her large, green eyes were wide in wonder, the neophyte treading in the footsteps of the gods' High Administrator herself.

"Good. You will hear them again, Pauling," Helen announced, reaching the altar and turning with a flourish. She looked the young woman up and down, at her purple robes, her tightly tied black hair, and her petite frame. Time and the tasks ahead would not be kind to her, if its trespasses against the High Administrator were any point of reference.

"Yes, Administrator," Pauling agreed, reverent, her voice shaking a bit.

Stepping behind the lectern, Helen motioned for Pauling to kneel. This was divine instruction. She should learn to genuflect properly. Taking hold of a massive book upon the lectern, she opened it, paging through until she found a place she liked. Text was scrawled upon the page in sloppy, almost childish handwriting, with terrible grammar and spelling. It was ancient.

"Let's start at the beginning."

 

***

 

Zepheniah created the heavens and earth, the skies above and the hard, dry land and expansive dark ocean. In the beginning, there was just him, and the days were dark and the nights darker. No lights lit the skies, no rains touched the ground, no plants nor animals nor anything grew. It was barren, and new, and empty. And he swiftly grew bored with his darkness. So he created three sons to accompany and serve him, and bring beauty to his world. Redmond of Mann, the Sun, who lit the days, blazing red and white hot with flames, and warmed the land. Blutarch of Mann, the Moon, who lit the night and drew the stars along with him in glittering trails of blue and white. Third, born small, and weak, and wrathful, was Gray of Mann, who did not pay tribute to his father, and quarreled with his brothers, and was cast from the throne of Teufort to the Gravel Pit, where he would rest and scheme and seek to undermine his cruel brothers, bringing storms and clouds and rains and thunder to harry and hide their influence and reign tumult upon the land.

The rains he brought coaxed forward life. Plants, animals, and finally, from their ranks, humans emearged in the gods' image. Zepheniah thought them special, or at the very least interesting, and saw they took their name from him. They called themselves mannkind. In turn, Blutarch and Redmond grew especially fond of them, thinking of them like distant relatives. They were too busy to dote on them, however, so they created gods to do exactly that, and to manage the now lush and growing world they patrolled.

But in the wake of Gray's dismissal, Redmond and Blutarch began to quarrel. They never much liked one another, and always stayed half a day apart, chasing one another as the seasons changed. With no mutual enemy to turn their attention on for most of the time, they fought long and loudly, until finally, each made their own set of gods for mannkind, unwilling and unable to cooperate. But neither was more creative than the other. So they created two sets of the exact same gods. Their creations warred for a time, fighting for dominance, but in the face of Gray's repeated attempts at the throne, finally, the brothers merged their creations, crafting individual beings from each pair, and those became the Teufort Nine.

 

***

 

"Who was the first one created?" Helen asked abruptly, looking up from the text, startling Pauling.

The young priestess jumped, stumbling over her words. Finally she murmured, "Wolfgang?"

Helen smiled. "But which one? Wolfgang the Red or Wolfgang the Blu?"

Pauling swallowed, jawing at the air. There was a first? She'd never heard there was a first. None of the texts she'd ever read listed which was first, nor any of the tales she'd learned as a child. It was just, the gods of Mann created their divine children, the Teufort Nine, in matching pairs. She licked her lip and bit it, then ventured, "Neither?"

"Neither?"

"Neither came before the other."

"You're sure of this."

A moment's hesitation, and Pauling nodded. Helen grinned.

 

***

 

Wolfgang was the first creation of the gods of Mann. A regal, silver-templed god with massive, white wings, mortal life and death are his purview. He brought pestilence to the creatures of the world, and in their need, he taught them medicine, because the struggle for life will make it all the more precious. Or so he says. When a mortal's time to die arrives, death comes for them on swift wings. White doves are his servants, and they herald woe and weal according to his capricious whims. Feared is the manic giggle of the Mourning Dove, for none are ever sure what it means.

His husband, Mikhail, was the next created. A massive man with a strong jaw and broad shoulders, he was born of the ice and snow capping the tallest mountains. Personification of winter itself, he is a creature of struggle and hardship. He governs the seasons and the harvest and hearth, and he is vested with the desire to protect all he loves. He crafted a family for himself, three sisters, who he guards fiercely, and his love for them, his husband, Wolfgang, and their lover, Francis, is stronger than iron. Familial love his his greatest power.

A great beast once roamed the mountains, known as the Mother of Beasts. She was one of the first animals to rise from the dust, driven mad by the storms Gray struck the land with as she was born. A great, white bear, she would destroy anything and everything that happened across her path, and one day, she happened upon Mikhail's sisters, hunting for food.

She attacked the three sisters, Zhanna, Yana, and Bronislava, and sought to devour them utterly. Mikhail arrived to defend his family, who, not being gods, were only able to stave off the inevitable for so long, valiant warriors they were. With his bare hands, Mikhail the Hearth Father fought the Mother of Beasts, and their battle raged for a month, shaking the mountain to the ground in the process. When at last the dust had settled, and the snow had melted, Mikhail stood triumphant with the Mother's hide draped over his back, her skulless head sat atop his own as a hooded cloak, and a shank of one mighty leg held in his hand. He chewed at the raw flesh noisily, covered in her blood, and asked after the safety of his sisters. They cheered his victory to the heavens, and drew the attention of Wolfgang the Mourning Dove, who saw this beautiful man covered in blood and death, and fell in love instantly. The remains of the Mother of Beasts were served as the feast of their wedding.

The Hearth Father still wears the skin of the Mother of Beasts, and her impervious hide protects him and any he deems worthy of wearing it in his stead, the number of whom have been few, even fewer outside of his family.

 

***

 

"What became of the parts of the Mother of Beasts that are inedible?" Helen asked, craning over the book to level her gaze back on Pauling.

Almost rote, the small woman replied, "Her claws were made into weapons by Mighty Zhanna, Yana of the Golden Hair, and Bronislava the Bold. Her bones became two thrones. One for Mikhail, and one gifted to Wolfgang by his husband as a betrothal gift. Three of her fangs were fashioned into knives for Mikhail, Wolfgang, and their lover Francis, and the final was fashioned into a knife and gifted to the first High Administrator, a wedding guest."

"Very good. Now what can you tell me of Francis?"

"He's the god of the winds, of art and athletics. He rules over romantic love, and it was the deep affection Mikhail and Wolfgang shared that drew him to them both."

"And yet Mundy and Tavish are lovers. As are Renard and Pyro, and Dell and Jane. What brought him to Mikhail and Wolfgang?"

"The winds," Pauling said, a bit unsure.

"The winds," Helen confirmed.

 

***

 

The gods were not all created at the same time, and while they are eternal and ageless, there are young and old among them. Youngest of all, in both time and affect, is Francis, the Windrunner. An artist and athlete, braggart and flirt, fleet of foot and romantic to a fault, he bears the countenance of a fair young man.

But a young god is an inexperienced god, and one prone to flights of fancy. The walker of the winds was known for his tendency towards destructive behaviour, whipping up whirlwinds to harass and torment settlements of weak and fearful humans. To the immortal and perfect godling, it was naught more than mere fun. But to the people, their homes blown asunder, their trees uprooted, it was chaos and pain and terror.

It was Mikhail who had finally had enough. A consensus amongst the pantheon saw the god of winter hunting down the young upstart. At his side was Wolfgang, as Francis had been the cause of much death, and his antics fell solidly within the winged god's area of interest.

They followed the winds, and as they approached, Francis took notice. The winds had grown cold. His precious breezes were no longer warm, but carried the icy touch of winter itself. And soon a soft flurry of white feathers began to circle his whirlwinds, and he knew he had company.

He came to a stop before the two gods, who stood fast where his storm had been strongest, patiently waiting for him to come to them. And when he saw them, tall, strong, and powerful in his presence, able to withstand his strongest winds, he was in awe.

He asked them the reason for their coming, and they told him he was causing too much destruction. That his winds must not always be violent and strong, that his duty is just as much to provide relief and assistance.

Mikhail reasoned that the sailing ships of mannkind needed him for travel, and his cool breezes to alleviate the heat of Redmond's sunlight. Wolfgang reasoned that the birds needed drafts upon which to fly, and plants needed to zephyrs to carry their seeds.

Young and impatient, filled with energy, Francis demanded to know what gentleness was worth, when the tempest was speed and power and so thrillingly satisfying.

The married gods smiled, and showed Francis what gentleness was worth. With soft hands like a warm summer's breeze, with lingering kisses like a chilly draft, Mikhail showed him the winds of the seasons and their comforting variety in the caress of his body. Wolfgang took him like the beating of wings, rapid fluttering gusts, and showed him that power was not destruction. And when they were finished, the skies were clear and the land was blanketed by rolling, warm winds that curled the sands across the desert and blew lazily at the grasses.

 

***

 

Helen looked up from the book and its lurid illustrations of the wind god's 'lesson' from the two older gods, "Can you tell me why love is so important amongst the Teufort Nine? Why they all have these bonds?"

Pauling thought a moment at that. "Because we do."

"Explain."

"Whether romantic, sexual, familial, or simply friendships, we all have bonds of love in some form or another. And the gods of Mann made the Teufort Nine partially in the image of mannkind, to proctor us and guide us, so they are like us so that they may know us. They have friends, families, romances, and sleep together, because we do these things, and they're so integral to us, that the gods must know them too. And what makes them such wise and knowledgeable rulers."

"Very good," Helen smirked. "Whose realm of influence is most powerful?"

"I—what?"

"Which god of love has most power? Francis, of romance? Pyro, of friendship? Mikhail, of family? Or Renard, of sex?"

"I—I don't—," Pauling stuttered, scandalized. Each god was as powerful as the other! "You can't be suggesting one is stronger?"

"Oh, I know it's foolish, but sometimes the gods are not beyond foolish questions either. Because this is one that they themselves asked."

 

***

 

In the throes of passion, it was Renard who had suggest it. That the love he and Pyro made was the most powerful bond of all. It had almost put a stop to the festivities, but the sex god has means of persuasion. All the same, it had been affront to Pyro, the god of platonic love, who saw the love of friends to be just as, if not more important, than the love made by bodies locked in congress.

The two gods argued into the night, until finally, they reached an accord. Whosoever could prove the power of their portfolio would be the victor, though the prize was never quite determined, nor truly important. So they went to work.

Renard, the patron of secrets, stories, and stage, stealthy and sultry, with his feline mask, slipped his influence into the minds of mannkind, entreating them to take one another to bed, to wall, to table, to whatever piece of furniture was handy, and often, to floor. Alliances were made, families were formed, romance was spawned and spurned, and kingdoms burned. The slick slide of bodies in congress sounded the connections made and broken between the humans, and in the end, the taller of the masked gods had a history of the rising and falling of people and nations to show for it.

But Pyro, the patron of beauty, music, and fire, enshrouded in his robes and bearing his unicorn-horned mask, also went out among the people and worked his will. Friendships blossomed where he tread. Acquaintances were made, genial conversation, cuddling, and hugs were had all around. Alliances were made, families were formed, romance was spawned and spurned, and kingdoms burned. The amiable chuckle of friends conversing sounded the connections made and broken between humans, and in the end, the shorter of the masked gods had a history of the rising and falling of people and nations to show for it.

But in their travels, they realized. Where friendship tread, often, so did sex. And where sex tread, often, so did friendship. And while there were places the two did not meet, rarely did they not meet romance or family in its stead.

Families formed not of blood but of loyalty were born from platonic love. Families formed in the rise of new children were born from sexual love. Families formed from both were given rise.

Romance formed from familiarity and camaraderie were born from platonic love. Romance formed from passion and physical desire were born from sexual love. Romance formed from both were given rise.

And in that moment, the masked gods looked upon on another. As friends. As partners. As lovers. As family. And they realized that love does not exist in a vacuum, and as their lips met, their wager was forgotten.

Which was for the best, because they had never set a prize for the victor.

 

***

 

"And thus, the balance was restored. But the masked gods are not the only ones who hide their true selves."  
Pauling sat up, "You're talking about The Great Wolf?"

"I am. What can you tell me of The Great Wolf?"

"He's a great beast in the shape of a man, a wolf that stands on two legs. He's the other face of Tavish, the Prince of Wolves. His first face is Tavish, Prince of Princes, god of nobility and birthright, of swordsmanship and alchemy. And The Great Wolf governs magic, wine, feasting, and revelry."

"Correct, and is it not true that wolves are sacred to the god Mundy?"  
"They are, because he is lover of Tavish."

"And the punishment for transgressing without tribute is severe."

 

***

 

It was a group of clerics dedicated to the service of Mundy, a hunting party, who sought The Great Wolf, under the light of the midsummer's full moon. Determined to hold service in the wake of their victory, the party stalked the forests at night, in search of a massive, monstrous wolf who had been seen in the area. Howling and barking could be heard in the night, growls low through the trees. The scents of a feast, the sounds of a party, had traveled on the wind, and it was not a difficult trek once evidence of revelry had left them a trail.

It was a night for celebration, the betrothal of two gods, and the humans so blessed to be invited to their celebration had long since eaten and drank themselves into a stupor. Naked, wine-stained bodies, their lips greasy from meat, their bodies speckled with traces of lovemaking, lay strewn drunkenly about a large clearing, around a dying bonfire. And just away, within the trees, a soft snarling growl drew the hunters onward.

They were armed with bows and kukris, weapons holy to the hunter god, and when they came upon a great man-shaped wolf rutting into what looked to be a human man, the priests let fly with arrows and ran forth with their blades. They assailed the massive beast with their weaponry, striking with speed, rending his flesh asunder and knocking a fang from his maw. The one-eyed wolf howled his rage and snarled, fighting them in his lust and wine-drunk haze.

Finally, it was the man he had been knowing, a tall, slim slip of a man who seemed to be a simple reveler, bellowed the order to stop. It froze the priests in their tracks for they knew the voice of their god, and standing before them, interrupted mid-coitus, was Mundy, the Huntsman. His voice echoed and filled their ears, though he spoke barely above a growl, and they knew what they had done.

They had hunted without tribute, and attacked a god, no less. It was then they realized that it was not any wolf, but The Great Wolf, that they had attempted to slay, and were cowed.

The punishment was swift, and the foolish priests were transformed with a flick of Mundy's hand, rendered nothing but a group of small, terrified rabbits, who scattered into the woods in fear.

Mundy plucked the fang that had been knocked from The Great Wolf's mouth, and saw that the god had grown another, shaking off his wounds. He kissed his lover's muzzle, vowed to never allow such indignity to come to the Prince of Wolves again, his king of kings, and fashioned a necklace of his tooth to serve as a symbol of their bond.

The necklace became a potent artifact, vested with the strength of their love, that vow to protect, and the magic of the wolf's mighty strength, and in a time of great need, was granted as a boon to the third High Administrator. She used its power to defeat those who would depose the temple with heretical worship of Gray of Mann alone.

 

***

 

"The High Administrator has often been tasked with the protection of the church, or to be troubleshooters on the gods' behalf. She must be canny, knowing, and above all: prepared. A High Administrator's task is management of both divine and mundane, and she must be ruthless in her pursuit of her goals. It is this trust in her as the bridge between Teufort Nine and mannkind that commands her power and prestige, as well as the largesse of the gods. It is why the first High Administrator was gifted Sascha, the blade of Winter. It is why the third High Administrator was entrusted with the Shahanshah fang. And it's why this temple houses artifacts made by both Dell and Jane, lords of smithing and war."

"It does?" Pauling's eyes went wide. This very temple held divine relics? How had she never heard of this?

"Yes. They came to us from a rather unusual source. You may know the tale."

 

***

 

Saxton the Hale was a man of power, of violence, of war. A fervent worshiper of Jane, he begged victory every time he went into battle, laying sacrifices at the altar of the Screaming Eagle, and engraving images of his divine creatures, raccoons, perytons, does, and birds of prey, upon all of his temples and weapons. He fought all he considered his lesser. Those of peace, those of knowledge, those who did not hold the same virtues as he, for he was certain that his conquest was divine. He was the perfect follower of Jane, his avatar in flesh, the epitome of his doctrine. Camaraderie, honesty, and the thrill of battle. He granted no quarter, and expected none, and was unrivaled, until he came upon the man who would be his archenemy.

Darling, a man of science and learning, found himself at odds with the shirtless brute and his hordes of moustachioed marauders. His technology was far in advance of Saxton's, his weapons and armour superior, his siege machines heretofore unseen anywhere else in the world. A devout supplicant of Dell, his temples dedicated to the one-handed god, and graven with images of his symbol, the metal gauntlet he wears in place of a limb of flesh. He beseeched Dell for victory and knowledge, and had been a conqueror, fighting the brutes of the land, taking what he deigned his, with his powerful mind and great skill and craftsmanship, and was certain it was his divine right. He was the perfect follower of Dell, his avatar in flesh, the epitome of his doctrine. Knowledge, crafting, and metallurgy. The Earth god surely smiled upon his victories.

So when it came to pass that Darling and Saxton met on the field of battle, the warlords fought long and bloody for months, with no clear victor. It was a standstill, with Saxton's superior tactics and prowess against Darling's superior arms and armour, and neither could gain a foothold.

But what they had done was gain enemies. Specifically, the small nation caught between the warring factions, and its leader, a warrior woman by the name of Mags. Known for bringing down wildcats with her bare hands as a hobby, she was a potent pugilist, and bent to no god more than any other. She was devout, but did not rely upon the gods to grant her the things she needed and desired, simply thanked them for their silent council when she achieved her goals. But in her dark hours, lands ravaged by the armies who trod over it and her people uncaring of the strife they caused, she turned to those she hoped would listen most: the gods lauded by the brutes encroaching upon her territory.

She prayed to Jane and Dell in equal measure, their names carried on the same breath, and did so for a full week without food nor sleep. In her delirium she feared her final hope was for naught, and it was then that they appeared to her.

One broad and stocky, with a shaven head and a metal gauntlet where his right hand should be, and the other barrel-chested and stern, with an underbite and a pair of undersized metal wings attached to his armor, the helm of which shielded his eyes from view. They spoke in voices filled with pride, and explained to Mags that the two fools who harried her people so were weak, using their blessings as a mere crutch, and held no power of their own. But she was strong to begin with, strong in mind, in arms, in heart, so they would place their blessings with her, because she was worthy to begin with, and did not think that her prayers somehow made her worthy.

Dell gifted to her a gauntlet, The Iron Fist, that would raise the earth to do her bidding. With a wave of a hand, the very ore would tear itself from the soil, and shape itself into automaton soldiers under her command. She could strike with her fist with the force of earthquakes.

Jane gifted to her a set of armour, the Cloud Crasher, which bore great metal wings which would allow her to jump to great heights and glide back to the ground, swooping down like a bird of prey upon her enemies and crushing their spines with her landing.

With these boons, she thanked the gods, and went out onto the battlefield, leading her army of followers and automatons to a crushing victory, taking what was hers and all that Saxton and Darling had claimed. When she rested from her labors, she removed the armor and gauntlet the gods had given her, and bequeathed them unto the temple, to the fifth High Administrator, who kept them for a time when another worthy warrior would have need of them. Her task done, Mags returned to ruling her, now much larger, nation.

 

***

 

"And those artifacts lie in this temple?" Pauling asked, wonder written bold across her delicate features.

"They do. In fact, come with me," Helen beckoned, waving a hand and turning on her heel. She tucked her robes in closer and led the smaller woman deeper into the temple, through her own chambers, through sets of doors, disused hallways, and finally, underground, to a small shrine of sorts, where a number of items were set out upon tables.

Pauling could barely breathe, her green eyes roving over every relic in turn. A curved blade made of bone, its small crossguard and pommel gilt and decorated with amethyst. A pendant on a thong of leather, in the shape of a tooth with scrimshaw hounds along its surface. A gauntlet made of iron and bearing arcane sigils, humming ever so softly. A suit of bronze plate armour bearing wings upon its back, wide faulds, and massive greaves and sabatons, extra thick and strong and terrifyingly heavy by its look. All of the boons lay before her, open and plain as day, these objects of myth and legend.

"These...these are?"

"They are," Helen hummed with amusement. "You know, Initiate, that the task of the High Administrator is a busy, laborious task. You have little time for your own interests, and your life is dedicated to the welfare and work of the gods themselves."

"Y—yes?"

"Good. Take the Iron Fist and the Shahanshah fang. There's a shovel in the vestibule. I have a wheelbarrow filled with corpses that need identifying features removed waiting out back. Welcome to the clergy. I trust you know how to dispose of a body?"

**Author's Note:**

> a thank-you fic for tumblr user sirfacepalm23


End file.
